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oh yes by Charles Bukowski

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I’ve reached a stalemate with my manuscript. I don’t know if I’ll be able to write any more until the end of this month, even if I’m just five days away. What else is there to write — oh, a lot, a lot. But it’s getting to a point where everything sounds the same and I feel like I’ll never be able to come up with something pure and true again. Or maybe this is just exhaustion speaking, at five in the morning, when I’m all bitter and dry and bled out. I should just sleep on it before I do something only an emotional fuckwit can accomplish with such efficiency, like go out for a smoke and burn everything — the outlines, the notes on tissue papers, the journal, the whole shebang — which has happened before. And then I will forever wallow in regret, which is what I deserve, really, in the end.

oh yes
Charles Bukowski

there are worse things than being alone
but it often takes decades
to realize this
and most often
when you do
it’s too late
and there’s nothing worse
too late.

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